Maya Angelou spoke to the importance of knowing one’s own worth. She said when you know your worth, you don’t have to raise your voice, be rude, or command attention: you just are. I used to be afraid to assert myself, especially to someone in a position of authority; I did not trust my worth. Last summer, I found my worth 1,500 meters under the sea. I wasn’t actually 1,500 meters below the ocean’s surface; I was watching live footage from deep-sea ROVs (remotely operated vehicles) while on the Exploration Vessel Nautilus in the Jamaica Channel. The ROV cameras send footage to a control van on board the ship and to a website that is publicly accessible twenty-four hours a day. I spent one week on the Nautilus as the last part of the Honors Research Program, an internship run by Dr. Robert Ballard, the oceanographer who found the Titanic shipwreck. The program offered me an opportunity to explore my interest in biological oceanography. After going through customs in Montego Bay, Jamaica (an adventure in and of itself), I finally boarded the Nautilus. The next day, I spent hours inside the control van, the center of scientific exploration on board. Its outward, boxy appearance has all the imposing awe of a mobile home, but after yanking open the salt-covered door, I was truly amazed. The van was considerably cooler than the balmy Caribbean air to preserve the wall of computers flashing and buzzing in the back. Its interior would have been pitch-black were it not for the massive, high-resolution monitors showing stunning live video from the ROV cameras. I put on a headset to communicate with everyone in the van and answer questions viewers submitted through the live website. I switched on the public communication system and listened to the scientists, educators, and pilots as I watched the ROVs descend through the water column past delicate white flakes of marine snow. I listened to the explorers introduce themselves and then nervously flipped the switch to send my voice to viewers around the world. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, being surrounded graduate students, scientists, and a Yale professor, but then I realized I should be proud. I was the only high school student in the van, one of only eight who would go on the Nautilus the whole year. I had earned my acceptance into this program; I was ready for this. I introduced myself cheerily to the viewers and quickly got comfortable fielding questions from the public and asking questions of the scientists. On the next dive, the ROVs approached what everyone in the van misidentified as a crinoid, an organism not unlike the Truffula trees of Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax. I was the only one who knew it was actually a brisingid sea star. I now faced what I had always been uncomfortable with: asserting myself. Should I correct the people in the van, including the expedition leader and an accomplished geologist, or stay silent out of fear? I decided I had to trust myself. I had been paying attention to the dives, soaking up everything the scientists said, and I now knew what I was worth to the expedition. I switched on the public communication system and said quietly but assuredly, “Actually, I think that’s a brisingid sea star.” The data engineer took a second look at the monitors. After a terrifying moment of silence, she said, “Oh, you’re right.” Then, the leader of the entire expedition said to me, “Yeah. Good job, Dawn.” I was receiving praise from people who achieved recognition I one day hope to have. Even more than that, I was no longer afraid. I hadn’t needed to command attention or raise my voice; I was just myself. The scientists accepted me because once I knew my worth, so did the people around me. The summer of 2014 was the most influential summer of my life. I went out on the ship after spending a month at the University of Rhode Island studying oceanography. Seven other students and I worked on group research projects to study the population densities of invasive lionfish in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean and also worked together to engineer oceanic drifters, devices that float in and measure ocean current by reporting their location to a satellite via GPS. I realized I want to work for either the organization that ran the program, Ocean Exploration Trust, or a similar organization, exploring the deep ocean. I want to be on research ships as much as possible in my life because the time on the ship was illuminating for me more than just academically; it showed me what I want to do with the rest of my life.
Maya Angelou spoke to the importance of knowing one’s own worth. She said when you know your worth, you don’t have to raise your voice, be rude, or command attention: you just are. I used to be afraid to assert myself, especially to someone in a position of authority; I did not trust my worth. Last summer, I found my worth 1,500 meters under the sea.
I wasn’t actually 1,500 meters below the ocean’s surface; I was watching live footage from deep-sea ROVs (remotely operated vehicles) while on the Exploration Vessel Nautilus in the Jamaica Channel. The ROV cameras send footage to a control van on board the ship and to a website that is publicly accessible twenty-four hours a day. I spent one week on the Nautilus as the last part of the Honors Research Program, an internship run by Dr. Robert Ballard, the oceanographer who found the Titanic shipwreck. The program offered me an opportunity to explore my interest in biological oceanography.
After going through customs in Montego Bay, Jamaica (an adventure in and of itself), I finally boarded the Nautilus. The next day, I spent hours inside the control van, the center of scientific exploration on board. Its outward, boxy appearance has all the imposing awe of a mobile home, but after yanking open the salt-covered door, I was truly amazed. The van was considerably cooler than the balmy Caribbean air to preserve the wall of computers flashing and buzzing in the back. Its interior would have been pitch-black were it not for the massive, high-resolution monitors showing stunning live video from the ROV cameras. I put on a headset to communicate with everyone in the van and answer questions viewers submitted through the live website. I switched on the public communication system and listened to the scientists, educators, and pilots as I watched the ROVs descend through the water column past delicate white flakes of marine snow.
I listened to the explorers introduce themselves and then nervously flipped the switch to send my voice to viewers around the world. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, being surrounded graduate students, scientists, and a Yale professor, but then I realized I should be proud. I was the only high school student in the van, one of only eight who would go on the Nautilus the whole year. I had earned my acceptance into this program; I was ready for this. I introduced myself cheerily to the viewers and quickly got comfortable fielding questions from the public and asking questions of the scientists.
On the next dive, the ROVs approached what everyone in the van misidentified as a crinoid, an organism not unlike the Truffula trees of Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax. I was the only one who knew it was actually a brisingid sea star.
I now faced what I had always been uncomfortable with: asserting myself. Should I correct the people in the van, including the expedition leader and an accomplished geologist, or stay silent out of fear? I decided I had to trust myself. I had been paying attention to the dives, soaking up everything the scientists said, and I now knew what I was worth to the expedition. I switched on the public communication system and said quietly but assuredly, “Actually, I think that’s a brisingid sea star.” The data engineer took a second look at the monitors. After a terrifying moment of silence, she said, “Oh, you’re right.” Then, the leader of the entire expedition said to me, “Yeah. Good job, Dawn.” I was receiving praise from people who achieved recognition I one day hope to have. Even more than that, I was no longer afraid. I hadn’t needed to command attention or raise my voice; I was just myself. The scientists accepted me because once I knew my worth, so did the people around me.
The summer of 2014 was the most influential summer of my life. I went out on the ship after spending a month at the University of Rhode Island studying oceanography. Seven other students and I worked on group research projects to study the population densities of invasive lionfish in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean and also worked together to engineer oceanic drifters, devices that float in and measure ocean current by reporting their location to a satellite via GPS.
I realized I want to work for either the organization that ran the program, Ocean Exploration Trust, or a similar organization, exploring the deep ocean. I want to be on research ships as much as possible in my life because the time on the ship was illuminating for me more than just academically; it showed me what I want to do with the rest of my life.